Varyon couldn't find sleep that night. Though he'd been tired since they arrived at this strange place, now exhaustion didn't matter. The cold seeped into his bones, making his joints ache and his mind wander restless. The silence around him was deafening, not the peaceful kind but heavy and oppressive, like a weight pressing down on his chest. Yet, the real cause of his unrest wasn't just the cold or the silence. It was something else — an elusive, persistent sound that haunted him.
There was a whisper, faint yet unmistakable. Just beyond the edge of his hearing, it seemed to drift in from the shadows. It was always there, just behind him, like a ghostly echo that refused to fade. The sound was never loud—no shouting or crying—and it never came from a clear voice. Instead, it was a continuous murmur, a barely perceptible breath of sound. It felt as though someone was standing just inside the tree line outside his tent, whispering his name repeatedly. No breath in between, just that endless repetition, as if testing his nerves. The voice was never harsh or angry, just persistent—always behind him, always out of reach, playing on his fears.
For hours, Varyon lay still, staring up at the dark sky beyond the fabric of his tent. His eyes remained open, pupils dilating in the darkness, as he listened with every fiber of his being. His breath came in shallow, quick spurts, trying to keep himself calm. Every so often, he'd whisper aloud, desperate for answers. "What do you want?" he asked softly, voice barely a whisper. The response was silence—no reply, just the whispering continuing like a persistent hum in his ears. The sound did not stop, no matter how many times he asked or how long he listened. The whispering persisted, unwavering, like a curse on repeat.
Eventually, tired of waiting for silence that wouldn't come, Varyon made a decision. Just past three in the morning, he quietly slipped out of his tent. His bare feet hit the cold ground, numbing quickly from the chill. He carried only a faintly flickering flashlight—its beam barely enough to cut through the dark—and a small knife, which he kept close, never openly admitting he even had it. He moved carefully, quietly, toward the ruins they had come to explore. His heart pounded with every step, adrenaline mixed with dread. The whispering still echoed behind him, an insidious reminder that he was not alone in the night.
He pressed onward, moving past the broken arch that once stood tall before falling into ruin. The stone basin nearby was overgrown, moss creeping across its surface, and the trees stretched their dark limbs above him like silent guardians. Into the thickest part of the grove he went, a place where shadows seemed to breathe. It was there that the whisper abruptly stopped, as if it had been waiting for him. Varyon turned slowly, his senses on high alert, heart pounding in his chest. The darkness around him was absolute, filled with shifting shapes and unseen movements.
For a moment, there was nothing. No sound, no movement—just thick silence choking the air. Then, something strange. His own shadow, cast by the weak flashlight, twisted unnaturally. It didn't behave like a normal shadow. Instead, it seemed to stretch and ripple, as if alive. The shape grew larger, darker, and moved in a way that made him step back instinctively. His eyes narrowed, watching the unnatural distortion. The shadow followed him. It wasn't a trick; it was real. It moved despite no breeze or cause to shift.
Suddenly, the trees around him seemed to hum softly—a whispering that grew louder, uniting as one, as if the forest itself was speaking. The voice of the trees echoed around him, seemingly coming from everywhere at once. They asked in a low, resonant tone, "You remembered once. Will you again?" The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, almost threatening. Varyon didn't speak. His hands stayed still, clutching his knife but reluctant to use it. He didn't run. Instead, he faced the dark, unblinking, waiting. Then, with a quiet resolve, he whispered back, "I don't forget what betrays me." His voice was steady, defiant even in the face of the unknown. The night pressed down on him, thick and oppressive, but he stood his ground, feeling the weight of unseen eyes watching.
Miles away, another figure was awake, lost in thought. Rylan sat with a worn sketchbook resting on his lap, the edges frayed from years of use. Beside him, rested the sealed black book they'd found. He hadn't opened it again that night, afraid of what might happen if he did. Not because it might physically hurt him—that was a danger he accepted. No, it was something else. Rylan was afraid he wanted to open it. Deep down, he knew the book's power was dangerous, yet some part of him was drawn to it. That fear made him hesitant.
Instead of opening the book, he traced patterns on his sketchpad—symbols he kept seeing in his dreams. Seven strokes forming a circle, an eye floating above flames, a creature with wings wrapped around a beast. These strange images seemed to haunt him, pushing him into a restless state. Suddenly, everything shifted. His hand froze, fingers trembling. The black book beneath him gave a faint throb, as if responding to his touch. Close by, the stone beneath him cracked softly—fragile, as if something had been waiting for a chance to break free. A faint burn mark spread across his palm, glowing with a dull red-orange hue. It pulsed like a heartbeat, growing brighter with each passing second.
His heart thundered. He pulled his hand back quickly, staring in disbelief at the strange mark. It had not come from anywhere he could see or feel—no visible cause, just an imprint on his skin. It was carved by nothing visible, as if it had etched itself on him by some unseen force. His eyes shifted to the shadows, searching for who—or what—might have caused it. From the darkness, Mira appeared silently. She watched him with an unreadable expression. No words came from her, only a subtle nod. It was as if she had expected this all along and trusted that he would understand. Her silent acknowledgment made the weight in Rylan's chest tighten.
Apart from the others, Ash was also wandering. He moved near the edge of the ruins, where a toppled column lay covered in moss and dirt. He sat on it, gazing up at the tangled mass of trees overhead. His mind tried to dismiss the growing feeling of unease gnawing at him. But tonight, whatever was lurking in the shadows felt real. Not a figment of imagination. He sensed it, felt its weight pressing down behind his eyes, demanding attention. He flicked his flashlight on, hoping to see what was there. For a moment, nothing. The darkness remained unbroken.
He turned off the light, and the shadows shifted again. This time, there was purpose behind their movement. Not random or lazy, but deliberate. An intention. Ash muttered quietly, a mix of frustration and curiosity, "Okay. So that's not me being paranoid." He took a cautious step back, eyes flickering between the shadows and the faint glow of his flashlight. Then, for just a second, he saw it—the figure between two trees. Tall. Still. Faceless. Watching. The shape was quiet, motionless, like a silent sentinel. It vanished as suddenly as it appeared.
Ash returned to the camp in silence, too shaken to make a joke, too unsure of what he'd seen. His usual humor was gone. Over the past hours, each of them had sensed something strange. Something they didn't want to admit. The feeling grew heavy in the air. They all saw the signs, the subtle movements, the whispers. But none spoke of it aloud. Not because they forgot. Not because they didn't notice. It was because each of them knew. In Hollowmere, they had crossed a line. Now, they had to face the fact—they were no longer alone in this place.